


Pulse

by sherlockholmesconsultingvampire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood Drinking, But it ends okay, Dark John, Dubious Consent, Human Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Bondage, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Vamp John, Vampire AU, Vampire Sex, Violence, Violent Sex, predator john, prey sherlock, reverse vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire
Summary: This was written for a friend who asked for vampire John, and human Sherlock.





	

There were a few things over the course of John Watson’s life that he regretted.

Telling his sister Harry that he’d kissed one of his very male friends at school behind the bike sheds, and the entire school knowing the next day. Spending all his savings on a girl who’d dumped him the second his bank account was empty. Not asking out the girl he’d had a crush on for three years at school when he was sixteen because he was too scared she’d laugh in his face.

These were small regrets. Things that didn’t really matter after a while, because he was young, and real life tends to make you forget about the stupid decisions your teenage self makes once you have to get a job and pay your bills.

So it was pretty reasonable to say that none of these things were as regretful as his latest decision.  
  
Moving into 221b Baker Street three months ago with the one and only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Because even as the remarkable man had saved John’s life that day when he’d sent three texts to John’s mobile and promised him danger, he had condemned his own in the process.  
  
Because John Watson wasn’t exactly the calm, kind, well-mannered doctor he appeared to be.

He was a short-tempered ex-soldier with an adrenaline addiction.  
  
And a vampire.  
  
And Sherlock Holmes was the most maddening, arrogant prick of a genius that John had ever met in his life. But, on top of that, he was also utterly clueless when it came to social norms, the solar system, and anything to do with sex or intimacy, and because John was more than a little fucked up, he found the detective to be the most beautiful, fascinating creature he’d ever met, and he _wanted_ him. Not just his mind and body, he wanted his _blood_ . He wanted to run his tongue along that impossibly long and pale throat, sink his teeth in deep, and drink until he couldn’t _breathe_.  
  
Now, John knew that that came from the dark part of him that came with being what he was. He _knew_ that and he’d learned to accept it as fact; there was nothing that could be done to change it. He had, however, got better at controlling that part of him (serving in a war as an army doctor does wonders for a vampire’s restraint) and he’d managed to not kill anyone in years (not including the use of firearms of course) instead choosing to live on bagged blood and keeping to himself as much as possible.  
  
He’d been happy in the army. He’d felt like he was part of something, and even though he knew the real reason he’d enjoyed it so much was the danger, the violence, he’d told himself that he'd been helping his country, and that’s what mattered above all else.  
  
That had all changed when a sniper’s bullet caught him in the temple, the desert faded to black all around him, and John had woken up on a cold metal slab a few days later with a pounding headache. The bullet had still been in place, and he’d still been clothed, so he’d not been there long enough for anyone to examine him. Just long enough to have been declared a DOA.  
  
When he’d returned to London after the incident, he’d changed. He’d felt restless, bored, and without purpose. He had no money, no home, no identity, and no reason to carry on living.  
  
He was going to end it.  
  
Then he’d ran into an old friend in the park and went for a coffee.  
  
  
x 

  
**Three months later**  
  
“For the last time, Sherlock, no.”  
  
“Please, John!”  
  
John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, certain he’d permanently creased the skin there with the familiar gesture.  
  
“But I need two blood types for the experiment. Why won’t you help me?”  
  
“I told you. I don’t like needles. Now bloody drop it before I drop _you_ .”  
  
Sherlock huffed, his arms lifting dramatically over his head.  
  
“You’re a doctor! You do this all the time. If you’re that nervous you can draw it yourself. Please.”  
  
John lowered his hand and laughed humorlessly. Two ‘pleases’ from Sherlock should have surprised him, and if it was anything else he was asking for, John might have acquiesced. As it were...  
  
“Fine. I’m sure there will be someone out there willing to donate a small amount of blood in the name of science. Will you at least draw my sample for me?”  
  
John’s sigh held the weight of the world in it, perfectly aware that Sherlock knew he wouldn’t refuse him twice.  
  
“Yes, all right. Get the equipment and sit at the table. Let’s get this over with.”  
  
Sherlock smiled brightly and ran into the bathroom, opening the cabinet under the sink and pulling out a medical kit that John had never seen before. He walked back into the kitchen and placed the kit on the table, and after a moment of apparent consideration, strode into his bedroom and returned without the jacket and crisp white shirt he’d been wearing all day.  
  
John would like to say that he took note of Sherlock’s state of undress, then calmly looked away and set up the equipment. He’d really, _really_ like to say that’s what happened.  
  
Unfortunately, the only words he could muster after he’d seen the broad, pale, lightly freckled chest of his flatmate and promptly shattered the glass vacuum tube he’d been holding in his shock, was “ _Jesus mothering fuck_ .”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened as he saw the blood drip from the palm of John’s hand onto the table.  
  
“Christ, are you okay? Here, let me take a look.” He took a couple of steps towards the table and reached out for John’s hand, only for the blond to pull it closer to his own chest.  
  
“What the buggering fuck, Sherlock? Where’s your shirt?” John snapped, his voice strained.

Sherlock looked taken aback at the harsh tone and took a step backwards, clearing his throat. “I didn’t want to risk getting blood on it. It’s tailored, John.”  
  
John huffed an incredulous laugh and moved to walk towards the bathroom, stopping when a six foot wall of consulting detective blocked his path. John’s voice was dangerously low and deceptively calm when he spoke.  
  
“Sherlock, move. I need to clean this up, and then I’ll come and draw the sodding sample. Just give me a minute.”  
  
“Let me help you, it looks bad,” he said gently, hands again reaching for John’s.  
  
John could feel his teeth sharpen and his breath quicken at Sherlock’s proximity. There must have only been a few centimetres between them now. He opened his mouth to avoid inhaling Sherlock’s scent, and lowered his head. “Sherlock. Move. Please.”  
  
Sherlock frowned down at him for a moment, before reluctantly moving aside and letting John pass. He waited until the bathroom door slammed before going to his own room and putting on a new shirt. When John returned to the kitchen table five minutes later, Sherlock was no longer in the flat.  
  
  
x  
  
  
The sound of the key turning in the lock downstairs startled John from his light doze, and he checked his watch as unusually heavy footsteps padded up the seventeen steps to the flat. It was almost two in the morning, and John had been waiting for Sherlock to get home for hours after he’d refused to reply to John’s texts.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asked over his shoulder, sighing defeatedly when the only answer he received was the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door slamming.  
  
He stood and stretched, taking his half empty mug of tea to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink before climbing the stairs to his room. He closed the door and clicked the lock he’d had installed in place, and opened the bedside cabinet, pulling the latch inside until the chilled hidden compartment opened. With a long exhale, he took one of the blood bags out, and, extending his fangs, ripped into the plastic and drained the bag with a huff of dissatisfaction.  
  
With his hunger as sated as it could be for the night, he got undressed, not bothering with pyjamas, and climbed under the covers, drifting off after a few moments of trying to get comfortable. When sleep took him, he dreamed of a writhing body below him, fingers twisting cruelly into soft dark curls, and cupid bow lips screaming his name as porcelain skin broke beneath his teeth.  
  
  
x  
  
  
The next morning saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, fully clothed but with a sleeve rolled up, muttering an occasional expletive as he fumbled with a tourniquet and syringe. John pinched his lips together tightly as he walked to the fridge and pulled out the milk, then flicked the kettle on and opened the cupboard.  
  
“I see you’ve opted for clothes this time then,” he joked, trying to gage Sherlock’s mood, but he was met with a low mumble of, “Wouldn’t want to repulse you with my appearance again.”  
  
John stared at the mugs for a moment in contemplation, brow furrowing as he turned the odd words over in his mind, and then, deciding he’d be the grown up one (as usual), pulled down two mugs and started to make tea for himself and Sherlock.  
  
He was just stirring the sugar into Sherlock’s mug when he heard a hiss from behind him, and he started to turn toward the source of the sound before the scent reached his nose. He felt his pupils dilate, his fangs descend, and his mouth fall open as his breathing became erratic, and he felt more than saw Sherlock stand and walk to the sink beside him. The tap started to run, and out of his peripheral vision John could see Sherlock holding his arm under the stream of water, turning the stream a translucent red as he washed the blood from the crook of his right elbow.  
  
John swallowed and, after taking a few deep breaths to calm himself and will his fangs to recede, turned to Sherlock, guiding him back down to the seat and sitting on one next to him. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion as John silently picked up some cotton wool and antiseptic, cleaned over the veins of Sherlock’s inner elbow, and took out a new syringe and glass vial. He adjusted the tourniquet and found a suitable vein, and gently pressed the needle through Sherlock’s skin, pulling the plunger slowly back and watching as the cylinder filled with dark red blood.  
  
He took some more cotton wool and pressed it lightly over where the needle was embedded, and pulled it out with doctorly precision, holding the cotton wool down as he taped it in place. 

“For the record, nothing about your appearance repulses me," John said, his gaze fixed on a deep, long scratch on the table.  
  
He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him, eyes narrowed and inquisitive, and he swallowed around a lump in his throat and stood, moving to finish making the tea and putting Sherlock’s on the table next to him before walking to his chair and sitting down with a shaky exhale.  
  
  
x  
  
  
The day went by quietly, a rarity for Baker Street, but the air somehow felt different. Every so often John would catch Sherlock staring at him from the kitchen table, the same analytical expression on his face from earlier. He appeared for the most part to be working on an experiment, something to do with the blood John had drawn earlier for him, but when John walked into the kitchen at five o’clock to make another cup of tea, the equipment hadn’t been moved from this morning. He opened the fridge and pulled out the almost empty bottle of milk and sighed, before going to the coat rack and pulling on his black jacket.  
  
“I’m going to Tesco for milk, do you want anything?” he asked, looking around the door frame to see Sherlock staring into the microscope at... nothing. There was nothing under the lense, he’d not even touched the vial of blood he’d made such a fuss over the day before.  
  
“Sherlock? Are you alright? Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock’s head snapped up sharply at the louder than usual tone of John’s voice. His eyes held a hint of something that John couldn’t decipher, and then clouded over to his usual indifference. “Mmn, I’m fine, thank you John. Just the milk.”  
  
John’s eyes narrowed as he watched the detective for another moment, before he turned and walked down the stairs, opening the front door and taking a deep breath of London air. He turned right down Baker Street, opting for a Tesco just past Regent’s Park, letting himself enjoy the evening air after a day cooped up in the flat.  
  
He made it to the park and sat on one of the benches for a few minutes, watching as people walked past him with children or dogs, and the families that were clearing away their afternoon picnics, and he thought about the life that he’d never have. It wasn’t a sad thought; even when he was human, he’d never really wanted to settle down in the suburbs and have kids and a dog and a white picket fence. He’d been a vampire for about fifteen years now, turned in the army by a fellow soldier when he’d been shot in the shoulder and started to bleed out, and he couldn’t say that he regretted saying yes when the young looking man (he suspected he was a lot older than he appeared) had asked him if he wanted to live.  
  
When the memory started to fade from his mind’s eye, John noted that the sky had started to darken, and he checked his watch to find that it was almost seven. He swore and pulled his phone from his pocket, surprised to see no new messages asking where he was, and stood, walking through the quickly darkening, and now empty park towards Tesco. He made it halfway down the path when he sensed someone behind him, but he kept walking, ignoring the prickling at the back of his neck as he felt eyes on him. He turned towards a group of trees that would offer him some cover, and stood amongst the branches and waited. He wasn’t worried, he knew that he could defend himself if he had to, but he wanted to know who was following him and why, so when the figure got closer, John reached out, grabbed the man by the collar of his huge coat, and pushed him forcefully against the tree, eliciting a grunt of pain from the figure now slumped on the floor.  
  
“Jesus Christ, John. What the hell are you doing?” the man slurred, a slight lisp to his words. John frowned down at the shock of familiar brunette curls, and a wave of anger crashed over him.  
  
“What the hell am _I_ doing? For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I could have killed you! Why the hell were you following me?” John growled, grateful for the darkness of the trees. His fangs were out and he was far too worked up to try and will them away. “Why didn’t you just call...” John trailed off, smelling the blood in the air and dropping to the ground in front of Sherlock. “You’re bleeding, where are you hurt? Did I hurt you? Sherlock, tell me where you’re hurt!”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth and a small trail of blood slowly made its way down his chin. “I just bit my tongue when you pushed me, I’m fine.” His voice was calm, but his eyes still held a look of curiosity as he stared at John. John swallowed, a small whine making its way past his lips as he forced himself to stay calm. To not close the distance between himself and Sherlock and finally _taste_ .  
  
Sherlock shifted on the ground, watching John carefully, his eyes moving to stare at John’s lips that were pressed together so tightly they were almost white. He leaned forwards slowly, and very hesitantly pressed his lips to John’s. John closed his eyes, refusing to open his mouth with the temptation of Sherlock’s blood so close, the scent of it in his nose, the feel of it on his skin from where it had wiped off of Sherlock’s chin, and he whimpered brokenly when Sherlock pulled back and stood, pulling John to his feet.  
  
John’s eyes were still squeezed shut as he stood, his lips still clamped together, and he breathed shakily through his nose, only opening his eyes when he felt Sherlock’s thumb swipe over the blood on his chin, then force the tip of it past John’s lips. And in that one action, John’s control fell away, and suddenly he was _hungry_ .  
  
Sherlock gasped as he felt something sharp pierce the pad of his thumb, but he didn’t pull away. When John’s fang slid deeper, Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth and lifted his hand to the back of John’s neck, pulling him close and stroking the soft hair at the nape as John continued to bite. He kissed the top of John’s head, and allowed him to push him back against the tree, one hand gripping tightly at Sherlock’s wrist, and the other pressing firmly against Sherlock’s sternum, pinning him in place.  
  
After a minute, Sherlock felt John’s grip loosen, and he slowly pulled his thumb free of John’s mouth, lifted his chin up with his other hand, and pressed their lips together once more. This time John reciprocated, and Sherlock could feel the muscles tensing under his clothes, trying to hold back. Sherlock shook his head, dislodging their lips, and whispered, “Don’t hold back, John. Take what you need.”  
  
John’s breath hitched on a growl. “No, I _can’t_ . You have to get away from me, _fuck_ , Sherlock it’s not safe for you around me right now. I know you think you understand but you don’t. You can’t. Your blood, it’s... it’s too much.”  
  
“Then show me. I’m not afraid, John. I don’t fully understand, but I know you won’t hurt me...”  
  
Sherlock was shoved back so hard his vision blurred. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock, you have _no fucking idea_ what’s going on. This isn’t like some some stupid book or TV show where vampires sparkle and live happily ever after. You have no idea how easy it would be for me to tear your throat open right now, and you could do nothing to stop it. _I_ could do nothing to stop it.”  
  
Sherlock shivered as John’s hands twisted in his hair and yanked his head back against the bark. He felt teeth graze his neck and he whimpered, fear making his head spin and his pulse spike. He felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes and he was panting, his hands trembling where they gripped John’s jacket. John’s voice dropped an octave, almost unrecognisable, and Sherlock felt an unmistakable hardness pressed against his thigh. “Pretty little thing, you’d beg and plead and whimper under my hands, my teeth, and you wouldn’t know if you were begging for me to stop, or because you wanted more.”  
  
“John...” Sherlock breathed, tears falling freely now down sharp cheekbones.  
  
John pulled back, and Sherlock barely recognised the man in front of him. He still looked like John, but his eyes held a darkness that Sherlock had never seen in them before, and he knew that his John was gone, and whatever beast was inside him had taken over. Fear crept up his spine like the legs of a spider and John smiled, showing Sherlock the fangs that had just been ghosting along the skin of his neck.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, waiting for the moment when John would strike, keep true to his promise and tear through his throat. But the moment never came. Instead, John stepped back, and Sherlock released a sob as his knees gave out and he fell to the ground.  
  
“What are you doing?” he whispered, flinching when John laughed cruelly.  
  
The laugh broke, turning into a growl and startling Sherlock to his knees. He could see the struggle John was facing, trying to push the monster back down, but the man inside was losing. “Sherlock, run. Run now, and hope that I don’t catch you, because if I do, I’m going to take you apart.”  
  
Sherlock stood slowly, turned, and ran. He might be able to outrun John, but he knew he couldn’t overpower him, and he didn’t know what would happen when John finally caught up to him. He ran the short distance to the flat, fumbled with his keys, and pushed the door open, slamming it behind him and sliding the deadbolt into place.  
  
He climbed the stairs, shrugging off his coat and jacket along the way and thanking a deity he didn’t believe in that Mrs Hudson was at her sister’s for the weekend, then walked to the sofa in the darkness, sat down heavily and dropped his head into his hands. The sound of the wood splintering downstairs made him flinch, and he stared at the doorway, watching as the shadows on the stairs twisted and the familiar tread of John’s footsteps grew closer.  
  
He knew in that moment that he had two choices.  
  
He could fight, and die.  
  
Or he could submit.  
  
He could handle pain, if it meant he had the chance to get John back, and they could work through it together. It was just transport. He would get through it.  
  
_I will get through it._  
  
“I thought you were smarter than this, Sherlock. You didn’t even pick up a weapon. You know where I keep my gun, there are knives in the kitchen, you could have at least tried to fight.”  
  
“I’m not going to fight you, John.”  
  
John closed the distance between them and grabbed Sherlock by the throat, lifting him off the sofa to his feet. Sherlock swallowed painfully around the grip, but didn’t fight back.  
  
“In that case, let’s see what it takes to make that big brain of yours switch off for a while,” John hissed, turning and shoving Sherlock down on the coffee table. Sherlock groaned in pain, knowing he’d have quite a few bruises in the morning.  
  
If he made it through the night.  
  
_It’s just transport._  
  
He breath caught in his throat when he felt hands at the collar of his shirt, then heard the scattering of buttons and rip of expensive fabric, and he gasped as cool air hit his chest.  
  
“So beautiful,” John muttered reverently. “You have no idea what you do to me, Sherlock. The way you look, the way you smell, and _God,_ the way you _taste._ Absolutely exquisite. I can’t wait to taste you again.”  
  
Hands roamed over the exposed skin of Sherlock’s chest, fingernails plucking at peaked nipples, and Sherlock gasped sharply, the feeling sending sparks of unwanted pleasure down his spine. His hands were tugged up roughly, and John pulled the shirt down his arms, leaving the buttons of the cuffs intact and using the rest of the shirt to restrain Sherlock’s hands above his head, effectively trapping him and leaving Sherlock feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable.  
  
John climbed onto the table, straddling Sherlock’s legs and running his hands down trembling thighs. Lean muscle bunched under his fingers and Sherlock inhaled shakily when those fingers stopped at his belt buckle, unclasping it and pulling the leather free, before popping open the three buttons on his trousers. John lifted to his knees, pulling Sherlock up with him and tugging the tailored trousers and black silk boxers down to Sherlock’s feet, then reached back blindly and pulled at the laces of Sherlock’s shoes.  
  
“Kick them off,” he murmured, waiting as he heard the thud of shoes and clothing hit the floor. “Good boy.”  
  
Sherlock felt his face flush at the words, and when John lowered him back down onto the cold wood of the table, he became very aware of his position, tied to a table, completely naked, and at the mercy of a hungry vampire.  
  
_I will make it through this._ _  
_ _  
_ _It’s just transport._  
  
And then John’s lips were on his skin, his tongue flicking over a nipple, teeth nibbling lightly and then...  
  
“ _John_ !” Sherlock gasped, his back arching as far off the table as was possible with John on top of him. Tears fell hot down the sides of his face at the sharp sting, and then he could feel an odd tugging sensation, and a tongue swirling back around his nipple. John lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes and smiled, his lips smeared with blood and one hand lifting to Sherlock’s face.  
  
“Open up,” he said with a growl, pushing two fingers deep into Sherlock’s mouth. “Get them nice and wet for me.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the implication and he licked at John’s fingers, trying not to gag when they touched the back of his throat. John pulled them free and shifted his weight, pulling one of Sherlock’s legs up and bending it at the knee with his foot resting on the wood of the table.  
  
“The more you struggle, the more this is going to hurt. So by all means, do continue,” John laughed, his fingers lowering out of Sherlock’s sight, and when a slick finger pressed against his hole with an unrelenting pressure, Sherlock choked back a gasp, willing his body to relax to the painful intrusion and dropping his head back against the wood with a thud.  
  
John continued to push until the knuckles of his hand were pressed to Sherlock’s arse, before pulling out and pushing all the way back in forcefully. Sherlock cried out, eyes swollen with tears now as he tried, tried so hard to separate himself from his body, to retreat to his mind palace and stay there until this was all over, but the pain was too sharp at the forefront of his mind, and he could do nothing but whimper as John pulled his fingers out and pushed in with two.  
  
“Look at you, stretched so beautifully around my fingers. I can’t imagine what you’ll look like when it’s my cock that’s deep inside you. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Sherlock. Tell me. Tell me what you’ve imagined me doing to you. If you behave, I might even do it.”  
  
Sherlock tried to speak, but John was still thrusting his fingers, scissoring them to stretch him wider and when he brushed over Sherlock’s prostate, Sherlock’s back arched again and his visioned whitened, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as he came, ejaculate painting his chest in streaks of white.  
  
“Holy fuck, that was beautiful,” John whispered, leaning forwards to lick at a stripe of semen that had landed on Sherlock’s still bleeding nipple. Sherlock keened below him and panted, seemingly unable to catch his breath properly. A high pitched sound was pulled from his throat when John’s fingers started moving again, and he winced in sensitivity.  
  
“Tell me,” he repeated, a little firmer this time, and Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. “Tell me, and I’ll use some of this,” he swiped the index finger of his free hand through the come on Sherlock’s chest, “to open you up nicely for my cock. Don’t tell me, and I’ll fuck you right now with nothing more than what you already have.”  
  
The wood creaked as Sherlock’s fingers gripped the legs of the coffee table, and he groaned loudly as John pressed down, his clothed cock rubbing over Sherlock’s. Sherlock was shocked to find that he was already hardening again, and he couldn’t stop his hips rising to meet John’s.  
  
“I... it’s always after a case, and we stop in the hallway downstairs, like we did that first time after the taxi driver case. You turn to me, laughing, smiling, and then you kiss me. And then we go upstairs, to my room, and you m... we f...fuck,” he stuttered, his cheeks flushing a dark pink as John pulled his fingers out, rubbing them through the mess on Sherlock’s chest.  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
“N...no,” Sherlock gasped as come covered fingers swirled around his hole, and he groaned when they slid back in, the glide almost pleasurable now that his body had adjusted. “Before we... you ta...take my clothes off, and you put... ah, fuck...”  
  
“What, love? What do I do?” John slipped a third finger alongside the others and twisted, and Sherlock’s body clenched around him beautifully.  
  
“You put your lips around my cock, and open me up w...while you’re sucking me.”  
  
John smiled down at Sherlock, watching as the flush spread down his neck and chest as he continued to pump his fingers. “Interesting choice of words.”  
  
“John...”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
  
“Please, please...John...”  
  
“Please what? What do you want, Sherlock?” John whispered, fingers stroking the alabaster skin of Sherlock’s throat, pressing down on the pulse point and swiping his tongue across his bottom lip when he felt the blood thrumming below the skin.  
  
“Please, please fuck me,” he whimpered, his head twisted to the side and his fingers gripping so tight that the wood creaked in his grasp.  
  
The sound of a zipper being pulled down was deafening in the silence of the flat, and Sherlock gasped when John’s fingers pulled out of him harshly, the feeling of emptiness shockingly unwelcome. When the blunt head of an intimidatingly long, thick cock pressed firmly against the tight ring of muscle and _pushed_ , all the air left left Sherlock’s lungs as if he’d been punched in the stomach, and the pressure didn’t stop until Sherlock felt rough, wiry hair that was not his own brush and tickle against the skin of his perineum.  
  
The soft, consecutive sounds of whimpering filled the room, and it took Sherlock a few moments before he realised the sound was from his own mouth. He opened his eyes to see John above him, still fully clothed with just the zipper of his jeans undone, in stark contrast to his own nakedness, and the glow of silvery blue irises met his eyes, and  Sherlock caught the glint of sharp canines when John lifted his head back and growled, pulling out of Sherlock almost fully before pushing back in.  
  
Sherlock screamed; it felt as though he were being split in half, John’s cock thick and unrelenting, sliding into him painfully as Sherlock’s body struggled to adjust to the intrusion. He bore down, earning a grunt of approval from John and after a moment, the stretch became more bearable. It was still painful, but John’s hands lifted to tangle in his hair, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the moan of pleasure from passing his lips.  
  
“Fuck,” John hissed, his thrusts slowing when he felt Sherlock relax slightly around him. He lowered his head to the table next to Sherlock’s, and groaned, “Mine. You’re mine, Sherlock. No one else has had you like this, have they? Or like this...”  
  
Sherlock’s breath caught on a cry of John’s name when teeth scraped the skin of his neck, and then light pressure turned into a sharp sting as fangs slid in deep.  
  
He’d expected it to hurt, as it had when John had bitten his nipple earlier, but this time the pain quickly subsided and was replaced with a pleasure that built deep and fast in his abdomen, and he felt his cock twitch and harden, begging for John to touch, but John’s hands stayed in his hair, tugging the chocolate curls roughly. John continued to suckle for few seconds, before he lifted his head up, just far enough to press his lips to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock whined as the taste of copper bloomed on his tongue.  
  
“You want more?” John asked against Sherlock’s lips, pressing their foreheads together as Sherlock rocked his hips up to meet John’s thrusts. He whimpered in reply and tilted his head to the other side, exposing the unmarked skin to John’s fangs and breathing, “Yes, John, yes.”  
  
John growled and grabbed at the shirt around Sherlock’s wrists, ripping the fabric and lifting Sherlock in his arms, carrying him over to the sofa like he weighed nothing. He sat and pulled Sherlock up to sit on top of his thighs, and they both gasped in unison when John’s cock slid in impossibly deeper. John placed both hands firmly on Sherlock’s sides, and lifted him up, slamming him back down onto the thick length of his cock and licking the whimpers from Sherlock’s lips.  
  
“I want you to do something for me. I want you to take those beautiful hands, fold them both behind your back, and intertwine your fingers. Do it, now,” John whispered, and a shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine at the order.  
  
Shaking fingers released their hold on John’s jacket and he reached back, doing as John had asked.  
  
“Good boy. Now, I want you to keep them there. Do not touch your cock, you will come untouched, or not at all. Understand?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed when John pushed into him again, the tip of his cock hitting his prostate with every few thrusts, and he found himself wanting to please John, whatever it took. His fingers tightened around themselves and he breathed, “Yes, John.”  
  
John’s hands lifted Sherlock’s hips a little higher, leaving enough room for him to start thrusting into Sherlock fast and deep. Sherlock grunted in surprise as he felt himself edging closer without direct stimulation to his cock. He didn’t think he could last much longer like this, stars bursting behind his eyelids every time John hit his prostate, and his hands were starting to slip with sweat.

Sherlock’s head fell forwards onto John’s shoulder with the force of his thrusts, and he buried his face in soft, golden hair with a whine of “Please, John, please.”  
  
John’s movements started to speed up, becoming more erratic with each thrust and he growled and buried his face into Sherlock’s neck.  
  
Sherlock’s hands fell to John’s waist, and he inhaled, his head spinning at the intoxicating scent of musk and sweat and _John_ . It only took a few more thrusts and a particularly well aimed brush against his prostate, and the pinch of fangs breaking through skin pushed him over the edge. His eyes clamped shut and his mouth fell open, screaming John’s name as he came untouched, and a burst of warmth filled him as he felt John tense and growl against his neck, and then a surprisingly gentle brush of fingers through his hair as John receded his fangs and licked gently over the bite.  
  
Time seemed to freeze in that moment, and Sherlock’s brain went completely offline. When he came back to himself, it felt much later, the light of early morning sun starting to leak in through a gap in the curtains. The sensation of a wet, warm cloth cleaning his chest tentatively made him stir, familiar fingers brushing ever so lightly over the marks that littered Sherlock’s body. He was lying on the sofa on a soft blanket, and he could feel John’s presence at his side. He daren’t open his eyes, scared that what he’d see wouldn’t correspond with the gentle, hesitant touches he could feel.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he heard, the faintest whisper, barely audible over the thud of his pulse in his ears. “Christ, I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock had never felt such a profound sense of relief until that moment.  
  
He shivered as the cloth moved lower down to his lower abdomen, John’s touch almost clinical, and he placed a hand under one of Sherlock’s thighs. “Can I… I need to check if I’ve hurt you, if there’s any…” John broke off, unable to say the words, but Sherlock mentally finished the sentence for him, ‘ _If there are any tears or ruptures’,_ and bent his knee, allowing John to check him over and clean away the evidence of what had happened.

He winced slightly when cool fingers parted him, rubbing carefully over the puffy, red skin and pressing inside just a little to check that the skin wasn’t broken. He heard a sob of relief above him and knew that he was okay.

He couldn’t say the same for John.

When the mess had been wiped away and Sherlock was clean,he felt the blanket being folded over him, and he finally opened his eyes, his heart sinking at the devastation on John’s face.  
  
“There was nothing I could do... I couldn’t stop myself, I’m so sorry Sherlock, oh God, what I did to you...”  
  
John’s breath hitched, and Sherlock sat up, reaching to brush a tear away from his cheek, catching it before it fell.

“You were gone so long, Sherlock. You were unresponsive for hours, I was so scared that I’d… broken you. I thought you’d never come back.”

_I’ll always come back, John. Like you did for me._

“It’s okay. John, it’s okay. We made it through. We’re okay.”  
  
John pulled back like he’d be burned by Sherlock’s words. “Okay? Sherlock how is any of this okay? I’ve just...”  
  
“You’ve just done what I’ve been wanting you to do for the last three months, John. Just because things went a little differently than I’d anticipated...”  
  
John laughed humorlessly. “For fuck’s sake Sherlock, take a look at yourself! What I just did to you was not, under _any_ circumstances, okay. Christ, you hadn’t even...” John’s voice cut off into a mumble, his eyes glazed over as he sat down on the floor beside the sofa, unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I took something from you that you can never get back. No one’s first time should be so... fuck, so _brutal_ . I’m so sorry, I know you can’t ever forgive me for this, but please, Sherlock. Know how sorry I am.”  
  
Sherlock leaned forwards, taking John’s face in his hands and lifting it to his own. “Look at me.”  
  
John’s eyes closed and he sighed shakily, his fists clenching in his lap.  
  
“Look at me, John. Please.”  
  
John cleared his throat, resolutely looking up and meeting Sherlock’s eyes, confused by what he saw in them.  
  
Sherlock bit down firmly on his bottom lip, drawing a droplet of blood from the small cut. John’s eyes darkened at the sight of it, his fangs descending and he tried to stand to leave, only to be stopped when Sherlock’s grip tightened on him.  
  
Warm, swollen lips pressed to John’s, and John inhaled roughly, his tongue darting out to lick the blood clean. His hands raised to Sherlock’s arms, holding him tightly, before he pulled back from the kiss with a frown.  
  
“What are you doing?”

Sherlock stroked a thumb over the tip of a fang reverently. “Getting us through this. Together.”

“I don’t think there’s any getting through this, Sherlock.”

“We’re already past the hardest part, John. I know what you are, I know what you need. I’ve felt it first hand, and I’m still here. _You’re_ still here. Yes, we’ll have to talk, yes it will be painful. But we will figure it out and we will _get through._ Like we always do. _”_

“How? I can’t help what I am, and I can’t control it around you.”

“We will get through it,” Sherlock repeated, the words now painted on the walls of his mind palace like a prayer. “It will take time, but I’m not going anywhere.”

A small smile flickered over John’s lips, before he nodded resolutely and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Then neither am I.”  
  



End file.
